


Caladrius

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [33]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood and Torture, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran was expecting Theron to perhaps spit on the slaver and leave. He wasn't expecting what happened instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caladrius

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who doesn't know, Caladrius is the name of that Tevinter slaver at the end of the Alienage quest, the one the PC can get the blood mage specialisation. After killing him in-game, I couldn't help wondering what a certain Dalish elf would do instead...

The warehouse was finally quiet after the rush of battle. The imprisoned city elves were freed at last, and the Tevinter slaver responsible could only watch as his investments were gently helped from the room by a group led, ironically, by an elf.

Zevran watched carefully, alarmed at the look of disgust and rage on the Dalish elf’s face as he stared down at the fallen mage. He’d only ever seen Theron look this mad, his eyes hard with something that could only be pure _hatred_ , two other times - when confronting Zathrian, and then Branka. It was not a nice look the third time, either.

“Alistair, Leliana, help the elves back out to their Alienage.” Theron instructed quietly, not looking up or turning around to watch the two humans continue up the stairs and leave the room with the straggling city elves. Despite the fact the frost spells had melted away, the room still felt cold.

Caladrius stirred from where he lay crumpled on the floor, still disoriented from being hit in the side of the head by Alistair’s shield. To the Antivan, it reminded him of his own meeting with the Grey Warden, lying helpless at his feet. But this time, he could sense Caladrius would not be helped to his feet and swear loyalty to Theron. He probably would not even be given the option. Zevran remained silent, half-hoping that he could blend into the background as a silent observer, that Theron would for just this once forget he was standing close by.

The blood mage was a slaver, had taken elves from their families to be scattered across Tevinter. And now, ironically, here he was at the mercy of a city elf very familiar with the art of killing, and a Dalish elf with justice on his mind.

As soon as Theron had learnt about what was really going on, his entire demeanour had changed. Gone was his usual guarded expression, the faint promise of an altruistic smile behind it, scattered into fragments. His face was grim, eyes narrowed as part of a cold mask. Usually when he helped people, that was enough. He smiled, humble enough to enjoy simply doing the right thing, and carried on his way. He did not linger like this, did not send the others away while he carried on behind closed doors and in empty rooms.

This time, Zevran was uncomfortably aware of the reputation of the Dalish. Despite how Theron had agreed with him about Ferelden’s clans being less violent than the ones in Antiva, he had not elaborated on how far the darker side to the Dalish could stretch. Zevran got the feeling he was about to find out.

“It seems your reputation is an accurate one, Grey Warden.” Caladrius conceded as he lay covered in the blood of his own men, struggling to push himself up into a sitting position. “I surrender.” Despite how defeated he sounded and looked, there was still that high-born drawl to his voice that dripped superiority over the two elves left in the room. Zevran refused to trust him for a second.

“I doubt that. Any other offer you want to try on me?” Theron asked, his voice harsh with restrained anger.

“I _could_ have used the life force of the remaining slaves to… Augment your physical health a great deal.” Caladrius explained, and Zevran watched Theron’s grey eyes narrow further into slits. “Of course, I cannot do that now. I don’t suppose you would consider just… Letting me go?” The mage asked, looking up at the elf that had bested him hopefully.

The ranger’s jaw tightened as he folded his arms.

“The gall of you, slaver. You treated those city elves like cattle or goods, and once you leave you would no doubt continue to do so from somewhere unreachable. You will not leave here alive.”

Caladrius lifted his head up to stare directly at the ranger.

“Ah, that’s a shame, isn’t it?” The mage sighed as he got to his feet easily, act abandoned. Theron automatically stepped back as Zevran stepped forwards, hands flying to weapons as Caladrius picked up his staff.

Wonderful, a two to one fight with a blood mage. Thankfully, Alistair’s shield blow seemed to have hindered the mage more than he realised, and it didn’t take long until Caladrius was back on the floor at Theron’s feet with a few more cuts and arrows for decoration.

At first, Zevran thought the slaver was dead, but then his eyes opened. Such a shame. And when they looked at the black-haired elf again, the Antivan smiled grimly at the look of fear that flashed across that human’s face. If the ranger’s anger had been contained before, it was straining against the bars now, deadly uncaring in a way Zevran found disconcerting. This was not the Theron he knew. This was a Dalish hunter with everything about the hunt in his favour.

“Are you going to do that again?” Theron asked, and the flatness to his voice was compelling; Caladrius shook his head meekly.

“Please, just let me leave here. I’m sure you’re a reasonable elf...”

“Have you ever encountered the Dalish?” The ranger asked, tilting his head to one side. “Are there Dalish elves in Tevinter?”

Caladrius looked bewildered at the change of subject.

“Yes or no, everyone has heard stories of the Dalish and the games they can play on foolish, arrogant _shemlen_. Fen’Harel’s Teeth is a fun one. Dress a man in leather trousers with nails embedded in them and tie his hands, give him a hundred-count running start, and then let the _hunt_ begin.” Theron was smiling faintly as Caladrius grew pale, an expression of far darker, wilder emotions than simple happiness. “But that’s a game for the endless forests, where it’s easy to lose your way, not some Alienage in the middle of a city. Not one my clan enjoyed much either.” He shrugged casually, and then crouched down beside Caladrius, wisely keeping out of reach in case the man tried to grab him. “But what we _did_ do, if our hand was forced, was strip and tie any _shems_ who thought they could get rid of us by themselves to a tree. We’d pack up and move on before their begging and crying started to upset the children. Sometimes we’d leave the remains of a deer carcass nearby. The wolves were merciful, in their own way. Of course, if they’d already hunted for themselves they wouldn’t bother investigating, and the _shems_ probably died of thirst.”

A chill went through Zevran as he both tried to and tried not to imagine those situations. This was perhaps the longest the ranger had spoken without interruption.

“I could do that to you now.” Theron mused calmly as he looked down at the mage thoughtfully, tapping a callused finger to his thin lips. “Of course, with no wolves to put you out of your misery, and with none of your men left to come find you, you’d die of thirst soon enough. Very tempting.”

“Please… Have mercy.” Caladrius begged, and one corner of the Dalish elf’s mouth twisted up into a cruel smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. It was a beautiful, terrifying mask. Something dangerous and feral that no Alienage walls or human notion of morality could contain, but was an embodiment of the primal deep forests where none dared to tread or make rules.

“Why should I, blood mage? You wouldn’t show mercy to an elf.” Theron pointed out, folding his arms almost lazily over his knees as he crouched there, the picture of serenity. “Mercy? You don’t deserve it, after what you have done. You sicken me.”

The blond watched as the Dalish elf drew the short knife he used for skinning kills. Theron straightened up again with a sigh, each footstep placed with deliberate silence on the stone warehouse floor.

“You would kill us both as soon as we turned our backs.” The black-haired elf commented, the first time he’d acknowledged that Zevran was still in the room. Caladrius had to turn his head in order to keep Theron in view as he knelt down by the man’s feet.

“You work with Loghain, according to those documents. He’s just as guilty of slavery as you are.” Theron mused, tossing the knife from hand to hand so the sharp edge gleamed in the light, a tactic Zevran knew he was borrowing from himself. It had the desired effect, and both of them watched a horrified realisation creep across the mage’s face.

“Well, what can I say? The world is full of pragmatists.” Caladrius offered, his weak attempt at appearing unconcerned fooling none of them.

“I had little quarrel with Loghain up until now. He abandoned the field at Ostagar, but now I know he has ties to selling off city elves into slavery?” Theron sucked in a slow breath through his teeth, a low hiss. “That’s rather personal.” The ranger glanced down at the back of Caladrius’ legs. Zevran braced himself for what would happen next.

“No, nonoNO-” The slaver’s instinctive begging was cut off by a scream of pain as Theron tightened his grip on the blade and moved it in two graceful flicks of his wrist, sharp metal cutting through the back of the man’s ankles to sever the tendons completely and incapacitate him. It was like cutting through a rope. With both legs done, he would not be able to walk again, not without incredible agony.

Theron’s face was still a grim mask as he straightened up, Zevran offering him a cloth to wipe his hands and the skinning knife clean of blood. They both ignored the human’s screams of pain and crying.

“Shall I end it for you?” Zevran asked quietly, unsure if Theron would have the emotional strength to actually continue and kill the man or not now he’d maimed him, now his fury seemed to have abated. Theron looked up as he sheathed the skinning blade - that action of putting the knife away made Zevran’s eyes widen in surprise when the realisation of what the ranger planned hit him before a word was spoken - and then gave Caladrius the briefest of indifferent glances, his disgust evident in his searing apathy.

“No. Leave him. Alistair and Leliana will be wondering what’s taking us.” The ranger answered bluntly, stepping away from the slaver. That coldness to his voice, of his actions, made Zevran shiver at similar memories of his own. So this was what Theron was like when someone provoked him into crossing that final line, pushed his considerable patience to breaking point?

He watched as the ranger picked up Caladrius’ staff from where he’d dropped it, and deliberately place it to one side of the room; within clear sight of the mage, but so far away. Theron stepped back to examine the staff’s placement like a man would admire a fine painting, one hand on his chin, and then adjusted it so it was propped up against a crate, glinting in the faint sunlight. Tauntingly. Zevran tried not to notice the dark smile on the ranger’s face that faded as he turned back around, or how it made him feel uneasy.

“Let’s go.”

Zevran nodded once in understanding, not caring to glance back at the mage as they left him lying helplessly, whimpering in pain and swearing at the two elves as the door shut behind them. No doubt, he would bleed out before he died of thirst or someone found him. Privately, the Antivan decided that no matter what Theron said otherwise, Ferelden’s Dalish clans were just as brutal as the ones in Antiva, and both were almost as brutal as the Crows. The only difference was the methods in which punishment was enacted.

When they were back in the Alienage, Zevran watched silently, closely with the others. Theron was smiling again as he talked with Valendrian, was thanked for freeing the Alienage elves, eyes bright with the knowledge and happiness that he’d helped fellow elves, his brothers and sisters in poverty. There was no hint of the earlier coldness in his eyes or a slight downward curve of his lips. It was as if that brutal Dalish elf from the warehouse with a cruel mask for a face that tortured humans for fun had never even existed beyond a nightmare.

 

Zevran waited until they were back in the privacy of their room before he let his mind run over what had happened in that warehouse. He stopped himself before he could start wondering what was happening now in that dark room across the city. Instead, he watched Theron’s back as he mechanically stripped out of his armour and folded it away. It had been subtler than normal, but the Dalish elf had been distant all day after leaving the Alienage.

“Warden…” The blond started as he pulled his own things off. Theron paused in pulling his boots off; Zevran didn’t often use that title when they were alone together. It got his attention.

“Hm?”

“I must confess that your actions today troubled me.” Zevran continued slowly, watching for any sign that Theron might react badly to this topic being breached.

The ranger looked over one shoulder at the Antivan, expression guarded.

“What do you mean? We freed the city elves from a fate worse than death. I couldn’t just stand back and allow something like that to happen.”

“Neither would I, and I am glad you didn’t even think about doing otherwise.” Zevran nodded, hesitating before he pulled a random, relatively clean pair of trousers on for the night. “But that is not what I was talking about. and I know you are smart enough to know as well.”

Theron let out a sigh, running a hand over his braids and tugging at the ends as he walked over to one of the windows, staring out into the night as he gripped at the windowsill. From where he stood, Zevran could just about see the ranger’s reflection, how troubled he looked, the way his shoulders were tense.

“You mean that slaver blood mage.”

“Yes.” Zevran nodded as he sat down on the bed.

“And you want to know why I… Did what I did.”

“It would ease my mind somewhat.” The Antivan replied gently.

The Dalish elf lowered his head slightly, looking down at the windowsill before he spoke.

“He was despicable, treating the other elves like property to be used and thrown away according to his whims. I hated him for that, even more so when he made that offer in exchange for his own wretched life…” Theron paused and swallowed, shoulders drooping. “I am sorry if my brutality upset you.”

Zevran couldn’t help a faint smile at the apology, despite everything.

“It was alarming to see you like that. I was not expecting it.”

Theron let out a humourless chuckle, and turned back to the room.

“I suppose you wouldn’t have. I’ve tried to keep that part of me, the hunter who revels in the quarry being _shemlen_ , dead. I’m sorry you had to see that.” The ranger crossed the short distance from window to bed in three silent, quick steps, and sat down beside the blond. Rather than move closer, however, he stared down at his hands folded neatly in his lap.

“What I did, now my head is clear… It’s shameful. _Vir Assan_ states that we should never let prey suffer, and I failed, I _disobeyed_ that today, for the first time in my life. I left that blood mage to die in agony, even taunted him about it.” Theron shook his head, braids flicking over his shoulders. A faint shiver ran through him. “I am not the kind of Dalish who tortures.” He added, looking up at Zevran almost beseechingly, expression open and honest with no mask of any kind, imploring the former Crow to understand.

Zevran nodded slowly, edging closer and lifting his hands up carefully, as if one sudden move would have the ranger fleeing like a startled halla. Theron allowed him to approach, but pulled away just before Zevran could touch him, muscles rippling under taut skin.

“You have not killed in cold blood before, have you?” Zevran surmised, and Theron hesitated before he nodded.

“I never made anyone suffer, or struck the killing blow with my own two hands. I feel...” The ranger grasped for words to try and describe how he felt. That he’d failed one of the most basic tenants of the _Vir Tanadhal_ , was no better now than the Dalish clans that resorted to ruthlessness and banditry to survive, and only invoked the wrath of _shemlen_ that were always better equipped to kill.

“If you could go back to that warehouse - not now, of course - would you have left that mage to bleed out?” Zevran asked, sitting patiently beside the ranger.

Theron shook his head.

“Now, no. I would have given him death, but at the time all I could feel was rage, a need for justice. I wanted him to suffer.”

The ranger trailed off, and buried his forehead in one hand. Zevran found himself agreeing with Theron. What the blood mage had done was inexcusable so perhaps part of his suffering was needed? But the fact Theron had been so brutal and calculating about it, that was what had made the blond’s blood run cold. It had reminded him of the Crows then, and now.

“Perhaps you gave him time to reflect on his appalling life choices, hm?” The Antivan suggested.

“Or perhaps I tortured him because I could.” Theron intoned bitterly, looking over at Zevran. “Because there’s a part of me that likes seeing a _shemlen_ suffer in my- in the place of an elf.”

Zevran frowned at the verbal misstep, and Theron blinked when he realised it had been caught.

“Theron-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The ranger answered quickly, letting out a heavy sigh. “And of course, I didn’t consider what you would think, seeing someone else being tortured like that.” He groaned, burying his head in his hands as he steered the subject onwards. Zevran nodded once, reaching a hand out to rest it on the Dalish elf’s bowed shoulder, but stopping short of just touching him.

“I’m sorry, Zevran, for forcing you to watch all of that. I should have sent you out with Alistair and Leliana, you would have been none the wiser.”

Zevran snorted at that.

“Are you forgetting when the mage sprang back to his feet? As good a shot you are in close quarters, you wouldn’t have been able to take on a blood mage by yourself.” He disagreed.

“Most likely. But that had to bring up some unpleasant memories for you, surely?” Theron asked, lifting his head up from his hands to look up at the Antivan, who merely shrugged back.

“Most likely.” He repeated, flashing a downright irritating smirk in response to the Dalish elf’s frown. “But I have already told you most of the entertaining stories from that part of my life, yes? This helped me to compare the truth behind the reputation of Ferelden’s Dalish, besides.”

Theron tipped his head back to stare up at the ceiling over the bed, closing his eyes.

“And?”

“I wouldn’t wish to insult you or your clan with the answer.”

“That tells me far more than you ever would.”

“Perhaps.” Zevran nodded, watching the ranger. They were quiet for a few minutes.

“I was a monster today.” Theron announced.

“You weren’t.” Zevran disagreed, and the Dalish elf frowned at him.

“I _tortured_ him.”

“I was trying to make you feel better.”

“I don’t need sympathy, not now.” Theron looked down at the bedsheets. “What I did was appalling, and I’m sorry you saw it.”

“It is nothing I haven’t seen before.” The blond shrugged. “Now, I think we should talk of something else before the night is irreparably ruined, yes? Dwelling on it will not help.” He suggested, lying back on the bed. The other elf looked at him, and then slowly lay back as well, resting against the blond with a weary sigh.

“It will be alright, _mi amor_.” Zevran whispered as he curled his arms round the ranger. He’d been the only one in their group to see that darkest side of Theron, and perhaps always would be.

 


End file.
